My Brother's Wreck
by thosefadedlights
Summary: "He looks at himself in the mirror, trying to find Fred's face in his own."  Because sometimes, memory just isn't enough.


**Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling and not me.**

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><p><span>My Brother's Wreck<span>

"_You're joking, Perce! You actually _are_ joking... I don't think I've heard you joke since you were –_"

The world shatters. There is a dull roaring, a split second where everything seems to stop, and then emptiness.

* * *

><p>George finds what he is looking for as the sun is going down, in the second last store in the alley, a small run-down business owned by a man so old George can see through his crinkled skin to the veins below. He is still very much shell-shocked by the horrific events of the recent Wizarding War, but as soon as he hears the name 'Weasley' he is all too happy to help, hobbling determinedly around his storeroom to find an undamaged product. The effects of the war are all too clearly displayed in the smashed glass, the broken objects, the piles of rubble and most of all the ugly dark brown stain on the wall, so large that George shudders to think of what could have happened. The store owner is not much better off. As he returns, George can see small cuts and bruises all over the man's face and hands, and the rest of his body is swamped in tattered, over-large black robes. He treats George with a degree of reverence and respect, and almost seems willing to give the item to George for free, but George pays because he knows that the price doesn't matter, that this is worth all the galleons in the world. Besides, the man needs the money, and George knows that Weasley's Wizard Wheezes will be able to bring back this money in just one day, if it ever returns to business.<p>

But will it ever return to business? He doesn't even care any more; how can he when a large part of his self is gone, when he is missing an entire half from what makes him whole? How can he think about earning money and playing practical jokes when what he most wants will never return, and there is no one to share in the laughter- no laughter, even, to be found, in the world which has suddenly become bleak and desolate? How can he think about rebuilding after the war, when there is nothing to build from, nothing even to clear away? Simply cold, dark emptiness, a hole through the centre of his being that can never be patched up.

He takes the object almost possessively, casting various cushioning and protection charms on it before apparating directly into his room in the Burrow. His room, and Fred's room. Every night after the war, George has sat in here, looking at the clothes still strewn across the floor on Fred's side of the room. He has lain in bed, listening for the steady breathing of his twin, only to hear silence. He has taken Fred's blankets and wrapped them around himself in an attempt to feel Fred's presence and smell his familiar homey scent, but they left the Burrow too long before the end of the war, and the blankets are cold, covered in a layer of dust, and Fred's smell has left them completely. The only thing left for George is Fred's pair of faded pyjamas, so old they are ripped in several places, and only reach halfway down his calves. They alone have retained Fred's smell, they represent so many memories of their lives together in the past, and they alone give him some small comfort. So he has worn them to sleep every night, and pretended that Fred was with him, but it has been a week and the pyjamas smell like him, and not like Fred. When he realised this, he sobbed silently into his pillow and didn't sleep. He had never had to sleep alone before.

Tonight, sleep is the last thing on George's mind. Harry has told him about Sirius, about Snape, about his parents, and how they lived on after death- the voices behind the curtain at the Department of Mysteries, the memories in the pensieve, the connection of the twin cores which allowed him to talk to his loved ones even when they were gone. And George, desperate, has clung to Harry's every word, pondering over them day and night. And now, finally, he is ready. The object he bought – a pensieve – stands behind a curtain that he has set up in a corner. He likes the idea that Fred will always be there, just beyond the curtain.

Slowly, he begins to extract his memories, the silver-white strands floating in the air before falling gently into the pensieve. As they sink into the liquid, he can see shadowy figures rising and falling inside, blurry as if he is seeing them through a mist. One rises particularly close to the surface, and his breath hitches in his throat, because he knows it is Fred. He leans in closer, to see Fred's face more clearly, and then finds himself falling in.

* * *

><p><em>The scene is not too long ago- only a few years back- but to George it seems like a lifetime.<em>

_He and Fred are lying side by side on the floor of their bedroom, their heads propped up on their elbows. It's the first day of the holidays, there's only one year of school to go, and they have one thousand galleons in their hands. There is a comfortable silence in the room._

_"Well, that's our lives settled. No more study for me, no sirree." Fred's voice propels through the air, happy and golden and alive. George feels his stomach constrict as he hears the familiar voice again. He swallows._

_He sees himself laugh. "Mother dearest will have a little hissy fit when she finds out."_

_"Mother dearest has little hissy fits at everything. Do you remember that time I turned ickle Ronnie-kin's teddy into a spider? She almost got an aneurysm! " Fred grins, and again, George can feel something stirring deep inside him, something akin to love and pain and grief and loss. "She got over it eventually, so she'll get over this after a while, when we start bringing in the galleons. I say we ignore her, ignore school, ignore NEWTs, and just start planning more merch. I'm thinking -"_

_"- self-answering quills -"_

_"- punching telescopes -"_

_"- love potions -"_

_"- skiving snackboxes -"_

_"- more extendible ears -"_

_"- extendible arms -"_

_"EXTENDIBLE PENI- " They stop, and grin guiltily, both halfway through the sentence._

_Then they look at each other and they laugh and laugh, even though the Order has been through so much, even though outside the magical world is slowly crumbling, even though Voldemort himself is back, because this has been their dream since they were toddlers and now it will come true._

Looking on, George feels his insides tearing apart.

* * *

><p>Afterwards, he collapses onto the ground and cries until no more tears come and he is left heaving and hiccuping, dry sobs racking his body.<p>

* * *

><p>The next day, as they are helping to repair some of the damage, he notices Harry looking at his puffy eyes and unbrushed hair. Harry doesn't comment, and George pretends he doesn't notice, and they work silently side by side for three hours, before they rest for lunch. Then, Harry turns to him briefly, before deciding against asking. He thinks he understands. But he does not know half of what George is feeling. Sure, people have died whom Harry has been close to, but Harry has never had his best friend, his life companion taken away, never had the very essence of who he is ripped in two. George doubts Harry has ever even had such a person to relate to in this way.<p>

After their jobs are completed for the day, George apparates hurriedly back to his room, splinching his eyebrows in his haste. He doesn't even bother to clean himself properly- simply mutters a quick scourgify to siphon off the worst of the dirt - and then he is leaning into the pensieve, and falling, falling.

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><p>When he comes back to reality, he shuts himself in his room and cries until he falls asleep on the floor, one arm outstretched as if reaching for something just outside his grasp.<p>

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><p>Every time it hurts so badly, but every day he goes back to the corner of the room, and watches his memories. It kills him to see Fred, so happy, so oblivious, it kills him to see himself so carefree, and it kills him to think that Fred is gone, that he will never laugh again. But like a drug, he is drawn to these hours of bittersweet pain, and he finds himself studying every inch of Fred's face, the way his beautiful brown eyes light up when he thinks of a prank, the nose that is just slightly longer than his own, the freckles which number exactly 103, 10 less than himself, because they spent an evening in third year counting them. And every day, when he is pulled back into harsh reality, he is left feeling empty and yet so full, devastated yet overcome with joy, hating Fred for dying and yet loving him with all his heart and all his being, and he wonders how anyone can feel so many things at once. But this is Fred, this is his best friend and brother, and so he can.<p>

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><p><em>They are eleven, bubbling over with enthusiasm as they prepare to enter Hogwarts for the first time. Cramped up next to each other in one of the small boats, they whisper excitedly, laughing at the pranks they've already managed to pull off. Sophia Clark doesn't understand why her eyebrows are suddenly flashing pink and yellow - to be honest the twins aren't quite sure how they did it either - Angelina Johnson's braids are dripping with something that smells suspiciously like muggle lime cordial, Percy's glasses are now completely opaque and Hagrid - at this the twins give themselves a hearty clap on the back - is unaware that his whole ring of keys is missing from one of his many voluminous pockets. Nothing could possibly go wrong on this day.<em>

_The boats cut silently across the lake, propelled by magic and creating ripples across the surface of the water. Their view is hampered by a rocky outcrop, but they glide past it, and suddenly the imposing silhouette of the Hogwarts castle looms above them. Everyone gasps loudly, and then falls into reverent silence, eyes wide and jaws slack. Even Fred and George seem to be struck dumb by the sight- they stop whispering and instead stare mutely forward. The only sound is of the water brushing the sides of the boats._

_Ten years older, George looks on at the scene. How can they be so happy, so carefree? How can they be so oblivious to what could happen in the future? When did life stop being one big joke, and start facing them with trials and decisions? If only they could turn back the clock, if only George could go back to that moment when he and Fred first arrived in the world of Hogwarts, if only he could say one more time "I love you" and know that Fred understood. So many 'if's, so many wishes for times that have passed. And the George in the boat doesn't know any of this. He is clambering onto shore, hooking arms with Fred and laughing his way up to the castle. _

_And then McGonagall is giving her customary speech, her stern eye unwavering as she looks over the crowd of first-years. 'Anderson, Hugh' is being called up. Then 'Arnott, Stephen' and 'Clark, Sophia', and all of the other children, each walking shakily up to the Sorting Hat and awaiting their fate, each being applauded as they make their way to their house tables. The crowd of first-years in the hall is slowly dwindling, dwindling, until only a handful of them are left, glancing anxiously amongst each other as they wait. Professor McGonagall is nearing the end of the list, and all too soon it will be the twins' turn. They hear 'Waters, Jemima' being applauded by the Hufflepuff table.  
><em>

_George feels his throat go dry, and Fred, attuned to him as always, squeezes his hand._

_"Hey, Georgie, we'll be alright, yeah?"_

_George smiles, the butterflies miraculously going away from his stomach. "We'll be alright."_

* * *

><p>He becomes obsessive. Everywhere in the real world, he tries to find signs that Fred is there, that he is alive. He looks at photographs of Fred, and tries to convince himself that Fred's repetitive movements mean something now, that Fred is signalling him. He pores over them day after day, hour after hour, willing himself to understand, but of course they are only photos, and move as they might, they have no mind of their own.<p>

He looks at himself in the mirror, trying to find Fred's face in his own. But he can see those subtle differences that most other people don't notice: the length of the nose, the slope of the cheekbones, the freckles smattered across his skin- they are all minutely different and so all he sees is George Weasley, alone in his bedroom, and he feels acutely the emptiness of the space around him.

And so he can turn only to his memories.

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><p>Existence revolves around his daily sessions in the pensieve, watching and rewatching scenes from his childhood - from their childhood together. Meals, jobs, conversations- they blur into a hazy mess as George lives in his world of memory. Why should he talk to Fleur when he can hear Fred's voice in the pensieve? Why should he eat his dinner when he can fill his heart and soul upstairs in his room?<p>

His family sees his deterioration. They see the dark circles under his eyes, from the nights he has spent awake, watching his memories. They see the hollowness of his cheeks and the shakiness of his fingers as he skips more and more meals to spend time in the pensieve. They sense his rebuffs when they try to talk to him. They hear the rattling of his breath as he thinks about Fred during the day. They try to talk to him, to reach him, but he ignores their pleas, rejects the lines they cast towards him because why should he care what anyone else thinks, now that Fred is always there?

They do not know his secret, and he feels no need to reveal it to them. He revels in it - the one thing since the end of the war that he has been able to share with Fred and Fred only. For George, Fred is no longer dead. He lives on in the pensieve, a half-life where George can hear and see him, but can receive no response. But for George, hungry for reminders of his twin, it is enough.

* * *

><p>Many months pass, and George is but a shadow, thin and tired and finding out that memories can only sustain him for so long. He has long since watched all of his memories, relived all of his most important moments with Fred multiple times, and now it is not enough. He can feel despair eating into him like the bastard that it is, gnawing at the very core of his being until everything is bleak and hopeless, and mocking him for ever dreaming that his memories could last forever, that Fred could stay alive forever if he only willed it. <em>You were wrong<em>, says that sneering voice inside him, _you were wrong like you always are. Fred was never truly alive even when you first watched those memories. You are alone. Fred is dead, gone, and you are alone._

And it is true. Fred is not there, and he is all alone, wallowing in the despair that attacks him every moment, the despair that no one else sees anymore because they have grown so accustomed to it. And it hurts, this despair. It cuts at him like a jagged knife, and he doesn't know if he'll ever be rid of it. He has no control, and this makes him despair even more. The knife stabs deeper.

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><p>He cannot remember when he started to cut himself. All he knows is that when he draws the blade across his wrist, when the blood wells up on his skin, he knows exactly where the pain comes from, and he has control. The feeling is exhilarating, and he revels in it. But when the pain ebbs away, he is left with an emptiness darker and colder than before, a deeper and more harrowing despair, and the angry scars on his wrists glare up at him in blame, for what happened to Fred, for being unable to keep him alive in his memories, for becoming what he has become. Despair crashes over him like a stormy wave, and he feels powerless, weak, degraded. So he cuts himself again so that for one fleeting moment, he can feel peace.<p>

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><p><em>April is the cruellest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire.<em>

There comes a day when even cutting does not give him any brief sense of relief. It is April the first, their birthday, and it is strangely symbolic, he thinks, that this should be the day when he has nowhere left to turn. The sunlight trickles in from between the blinds and illuminates the curtain George has set up in the corner of the room. Again, George thinks it is strangely symbolic. A day of portents. An unearthly smile crosses his lips as he stares at the patch of sunlight. Perhaps this is the day, he thinks. Who's to say it isn't? Perhaps today, he will release that final memory that he has kept buried at the very bottom of his mind. There's nothing else he can really do.

The silvery fluid slips out of his head and into the pensieve easily, as if it has been waiting to be released. It swirls in the liquid, slow, hypnotic, and blurry figures start to rise from it. There is a moment of hesitation, and then George leans slowly over and finds himself back in the Second Wizarding War.

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><p><em>The twins are leaning on the stone walls of the battlements, just minutes before the battle started. The anticipation, the repressed fear, the hint of excitement and adrenaline all hit George like a bus travelling 80 kilometres an hour. He staggers as Fred speaks.<em>

_"So...this is it."_

_"This is it."_

_"We'll make it through together."_

_"Yea...together." His younger self seems dazed, and George remembers how scared he was, how he thought he was going to throw up.  
><em>

_Fred turns to George and nudges him in the ribs. "Will you stop it? I'm terrified out of my brain too but I'm not repeating you like some sort of parrot."_

_George smiles weakly. "Well good for you, my gallant brother. I'm just- I don't know how we're going to do this. I mean, this is _You-know-who _we're talking about, and, well, he's not exactly stupid or weak."_

_Fred smiles as well. "Then let's not think about it. Harry is more than capable of beating You-know-who; he's done it so many times before. And look at that wall of protective charms above us. It will take more than a group of death eaters to break through that. Let us turn to grander and more important things. What do you want to do with Weasley's Wizard Wheezes after this is all over? I reckon we should expand, and get that place in Hogsmeade after all."_

_"'Cause the most important thing in the world is the expansion of a joke shop." As Fred mock glares at him, he relents. "Ok, you're right as always. Thinking about my lack of balls isn't going to help in any way. We should definitely buy Zonko's, but to assist those poor resultant displaced Zonko's workers, we could let them work in our Hogsmeade branch- a position like Verity's in Diagon Alley."_

_George has heard enough. The verbalisation of all their dreams and hopes for the future, they taunt and jeer at him as he thinks about all the things that Fred can never do now, and that he can never do without Fred there to help him. He chokes as the lump in his throat grows so large he is suffocating, and tears pour from his eyes uncontrollably as his grief washes over him. Without Fred, their joint dreams will never be realised. Without Fred, nothing he does will ever be enjoyable or satisfying. Without Fred, what point is there to keep on living?_

_ And as he thinks about death, as he thinks about the final peace that can re-unite him with his brother, his twin, his soul mate, everything becomes crystal clear. Death seems to welcome him as an old friend, comforting him and wrapping him with a strange warmth. And although his body is still racked with sobs, his soul is still and quiet and acceptant. He prepares to return to his room, his wand in his hand, a fatal curse in his head.  
><em>

_Suddenly, the protective barrier above them fizzes with the impact of the Death Eater's spells, and pieces of it seem to break away. The atmosphere tenses, and George stops in his tracks, turning to catch the final words with tears streaking down his cheeks. Fred is staring into the other George's eyes, into his heart and into his soul. They share a moment of silent understanding, and Fred, in a startling flash of insight, asks a question. "If either of us dies in this- if you die, if I die- do you solemnly swear to never stop living life to the full?"_

_There is a pregnant pause, and then the other George swallows, and nods. "I swear."_

_Fred smiles. "I swear it too. I love you George."_

_He turns to enter the castle, but George catches him on the sleeve. "Hey, Freddie, we'll be alright, yeah?"_

_He needs the assurance.  
><em>

_"We'll be alright."_

* * *

><p><em>But tell me, did you sail across the sun?<em>

George's knees thud against the floorboards as he collapses onto the ground. He had forgotten these final words, in his grief and in his pain. He had forgotten those vital words of life and hope and of pure brotherly love that so comfort him now. But how could Fred have known? How could he foresee his own death, and know exactly how his brother would react? How had he been able to say those words that George needs so much now, nearly a year later?

He struggles shakily to his feet to replace the pensieve and close the curtain, his fingertips trembling. He wonders again what Fred is feeling, now that he has passed on, but he realises that whatever it is like, Fred is making the best of it. In fact, he thinks, as he takes in a shuddering breath to still the fat droplets still coursing down his face, Fred's probably turning the River Styx into jelly for laughs, and suddenly a small smile curves the corner of his mouth upward. Fred may be in the next life, but George is still on this earth, and it's his job to see that all mischief is duly managed.

He turns to the curtain one last time.

_Did you make it to the Milky Way_

_To see the lights all faded_

_And that heaven is overrated?_

_And tell me, did you fall for a shooting star?  
><em>

"I love you, Fred."

The curtain flutters as he walks away.


End file.
